This Is Not 'Goodbye'
by sunshinetina
Summary: John's parents decide to move. Sherlock is gloomy because his only friend is leaving him. So, he decides to take violin lessons. Inspired by the fab art of 'thebritishteapot' on tumblr.


**This fic is inspired by the fabulous art of 'thebritishteapot' on tumblr, particularly this one: ** post/26706309208/this-is-not-a-goodbye

**THIS IS NOT 'GOODBYE'**

John can't leave me now. He is the only person I can rely on. He is the only thing I can trust. He is the only one. No, no, nope. You can't leave me, John. Tell me you are joking. Please, John. Tell me this is a nightmare!

But he doesn't. His dark-blue eyes stare at me apologetically and I swear – I swear, swear, swear – that if I walk out of the room at this very moment, he would cry.

No, John! Don't do this, stupid John! You can see it too – you don't want to leave. I don't want you to leave. No one wants you to leave. Except your dull parents.

'Are you really going to leave?'

I want to add some '_me_' at the end of the sentence but I know perfectly well this is going to sound awkward and so out of space. It's better to preserve my status of 'an annoying dick' and my self-esteem high enough. Sentiment is not for me. It's a chemical defect found on the losing side. I am not a loser. Not _yet_.

He nods and I feel a whole massive planet – not just a stone – in my throat. I am afraid that if I open my mouth, there would be no sound coming out from it.

'But... why?'

My voice is weak, barely heard, almost a whisper. John shrugs.

'Because of my parents. They want to live in the centre, to have stores nearby, theatres, to go to concerts...'

Dull parents, as I said. They can go to those stupid things if they live here. No reason for moving.

I sigh and John responds to me with a quiet cough. He is trying to suppress his tears, I can tell.

_Don't leave me, John..._

'I'm so sorry, Sherlock. We're leaving in a week. I-...'

But he doesn't finish. He just shrugs once again and walks out of the room. I curl up (John would say 'sulk') in my small sofa. Then jump off it and approach the window. It's so quiet now – without John. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. It's disgustingly hateful.

It was a strange thought of mine, I am sure about that. But Ma and Mycroft kept telling me that the best way to avoid those gloomy and depressing thoughts was to engage in something else rather than my deductions.

What else?

My whole life has been going around deductions, deductions and nothing else but deductions. I thought they were the perfect remedy for boredom and for relaxing but I was wrong. They did not get rid of the pain in my entire body. They did not fill up the hole in my chest. They did not bring my partner back. John was not here; not with me.

Probably, he found another Sherlock. Maybe he solved crimes with another kid. Or eventually, he started taking firing practices before getting to the military school. He deserved all that. I did _not_ deserve _him_.

So... here I am. Sitting in front of the music teacher's office. She is an old lady but she is a friend of Mummy and she owes her a lot, since our family took her out of the misery. She is a renowned musician now. She seems... ok. If John was here she would have said she was _lovely_. No, John is _not_ here. I should not think about him. Never again.

'What can I do for you, dear?'

Oh, no. Not _dear_, just not _dear_. _Dear_ is what Mrs Watson used to call me. No _dear_.

'I want to learn to play violin.'

I am trying to be as positive as possible. It is an awfully hard thing to do. Especially right now.

'Excellent! Come here, dear. Follow me.'

No _dear_, I said! Grrrr...

'I want to learn to play this composer.'

Somebody once told me that Paganini has some of the hardest violin concertos. He has all the techniques of a violin virtuoso. I want to be one. I want to be perfect. I can play the hardest composer. Whatever it takes.

'Fine. This will take a while.'

No, it won't. It will take just seven days. Exactly seven days – no more, no less.

'I have one week only.'

She frowns. Stupid teacher. I can't understand why Mummy is her friend. She is dull.

'But this is impossible.'

_Impossible_? I don't know what this word means!

'No, it's not!'

'But, dear...'

'I am not _dear_ and it is _not_ _impossible_! I _will_ learn to play this composer! I _will_ be _per-fect_! Understood?'

It's been three days and a half now. I am getting somewhere, I know that. Just the final notes are bothering me. C'mon, Sherlock, you can do this. You can prove them you are born for every job there is in this world.

'Sherlock, dinner is ready! Oh, for God's sake, what is this crap?'

'This. Is. _Music_.'

'Doesn't sound like that. More like shrieks. Anyway, Mummy and I are not going to wait for you a century.'

They sent me to those lessons. Why don't they understand then?

I put the violin down, grab a blue crayon (John's crayons – he forgot them in my house while packing) and a piece of paper. I open the door slightly and stick the sign to it. Mycroft will know now.

_Go away, My-cr-oft!_

Mycroft chuckles.

'Oh, dear God, Sherlock! You could have said it. Your handwriting is appalling.'

'Go away, stupid Mycroft!'

Day Seven.

That's it. Now I'll show John what a virtuoso I am and he'll throw all those boxes and packages aside and he will stay here with me. Forever.

'Look, John! I can play violin!'

He turns to me with red eyes and inquiring look. Deduction: he has cried his eyes out last night.

'I'll play it! I'll do concerts for your parents! There's no need for you to go anywhere else – in the stupid City centre. They don't need to leave in order to listen to good music. I am capable of good music too.'

The silence is awkward. I am starting to think this was not the best idea I've ever had. John's red eyes become watery again. No, John. No, John! Don't cry, John! Don't...

'I'm really sorry, Sherlock. I have to go now, it's getting late.'

No, you don't have to...

'I promise you, Sherlock. I'll listen to you and your violin when I come back...'

You'll never come back, John. We'll leave me here: alone and lonely, and you'll never come back for me.

'Ok?'

It's not ok.

John takes the last box full of toys and stupid and unnecessary and ridiculous stuff. He walks out of the room.

'Goodbye, Sherlock.'

I've always been thinking that it would be _me_ who would say those words: 'Goodbye, John!' In this stupid _Winnie the Pooh_ book of John's it was written – I remember – something like that... 'If you live to be 100, I hope I live 100 minus 1 day, so I never have to live a day without you.' Now I get the meaning of it. I thought it was all rubbish till now.

I know he'll not come back. And I want to ask him to. I want to grab him, to hug him, to never let him go. I close my eyes, as to save the memory of this hurtful 'goodbye' of his, which seems more like a 'farewell' to me. You will always be my friend, John Hamish Watson. Till the very end of my dull days. My best friend. My only friend.

I don't need this violin. I've never needed it. This whole idea was as ridiculous and stupid as I am now. Lonely and forgotten. Useless. Damn you, violin!

I want to throw it away but I will harm it. Mummy has once told me that we should not harm the things we like. And I used to like this dumb violin. Even if it was for a week only. It was my only way to get to John. Unsuccessful, of course.

**One year later...**

I heard the sound of a violin nearby: I think it was coming from the new neighbours. It's a girl, I think – I saw her white ribbons once, when she was coming from school. She is good. But I am better.

Shall I...

No, I shan't. I can't. This violin was for John only. For John. I can't play it now, when he's not here. Though he'll never come back.

**Five years later...**

Mummy has put the violin in the lumber room. It's ok: I don't need it at all.

The girl with the white ribbons went to New York. She took her violin with her – I saw her departure. It was a cold and snowy December evening but I caught a glimpse of her violin. Hers was more expensive, I presume. But mine was still better and way more beautiful.

Shall I...

No, I shan't. I was absolutely right. John did not come. I asked Mycroft just yesterday about John and his parents but he shrugged. If Mycroft did not know anything, then no one knew. Or he knew but he did not want to tell me. Either way, John was not here. He'll never be.

**Ten years later...**

The music teacher at school wanted every single one of us to show some skills with a musical instrument for the graduation. I refused to play any. But stupid Mycroft and way too proud and crying Mummy told her I can play violin pretty well.

I _can't_.

But she still hands me a violin and forces me to join the rest of the class.

_Fine_. I've never said I won't play violin. I won't play _my_ violin. I can play all the other violins in the world. But _my_ violin is for John. John who _never_ came back.

**Twenty years later...**

I am a detective now – just as I promised John. I know from Mycroft that John is an army doctor. So, he kept this promise of his as well. He didn't do the same thing about another promise of his, though.

**Twenty-seven years later...**

I gave up. I am 35 now; I can't go like this forever. In the late hours of the night, when the Yard does not need me and when it's so awfully peaceful around, I can't stand like a ghost till the dawn breaks. I get it: I am a freak – I've always been. I can't sleep, can't eat, can't breathe properly – all of this is painfully boring. I tried drugs – been a junkie for years. Still thinking over the idea of starting them again. I can't shoot Mrs Hudson's wall again – she will kick me out of the flat. And 221B is the only place I know – the only place I can call home. It was her and her husband – who is, thank God, away now – gave it to me as a present. Can't give it up.

There's only one thing I can do now – play the violin I brought with myself.

Shall I?

Yes, I shall. Finally. John will never come back – I get it now.

'Hello.'

I turn my face just to see a short man in a fluffy jumper. He has golden hair and dark-blue eyes, just like the boy I used to know and love 27 years ago. He reminds me of him so much, it makes me open the door of the lumber room and take out the violin and play. Perfect timing, mate.

'Hello.'

'I am your new flat-mate. Has Mrs Hudson-...'

I nod in response.

'Yes, she has mentioned about you. Come. Sit. Although it is a psychosomatic one, it may hurt...' I smirk. His eyes are widened, 'It doesn't, right?'

I point with the violin bow at his leg. He is using a cane.

'How do y-...'

'Flatmates should know the worst about each other.'

'I agree with that.'

'How do you feel about the violin?'

'Pardon me?'

'I play it when I am thinking. Would it bother you?'

'While you are-... No. No problem at all.'

I smile. He smiles back and sits on the chair I just pointed out. The resemblance is killing me. Can't be...

I grab the violin. I can play Paganini. The man behind me will most certainly appreciate it.

'Fine then...'

'Damn my leg!'

The man exclaims as he pushes his traumatised leg forward. My bow has not even touched the violin strings. Once, 27 years ago, when he broke his leg – this very same leg – John exclaimed 'Damn my leg!' with frustration. With the end of my eye – somewhere between my lashes – I can notice the wrinkle of the chubby nose and the dark-blue eyes getting even darker.

John is here. John is finally here. Just as he _promised_.

'Wait!' he interrupts my thoughts, as always, 'Wait... We don't know a single thing about each other. The violin is the last thing I-...'

I smirk.

'I know you are an army doctor – you've always wanted to be one – recently invalidated home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a sister – precisely five years and four months younger than you, named Harry – who's concerned about you but you won't go to her because you don't approve her – certainly because she is an alcoholic; not because she recently walked out on her civil partner. And I know your therapist thinks your limp is at least partially psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid, as I've already mentioned. Enough to be going on with, don't you think?'

'How-...'

_John knew. John understood. John was aware of this language and this specific attitude. He remembered it from somewhere. _

_No. _

_Light-blue eyes, curly black hair, tall and muscular body, long fingers, and those razor-shaped cheekbones. He knew a boy like this one. But he hasn't seen him for... 27 years._

I see that John is a bit confused now. Probably he remembers something – no, I am certain he does. I smirk once again and play the initial accords of the violin concerto.

'The name's Sherlock Holmes, John. Consulting detective. The only one in the world.'

'_The name has always been **Sherlock Holmes**,' was John's first thought, 'And he has always been **the only one in the world**.'_


End file.
